Dinner for Two
by Kaprou
Summary: A simple date, a shadowy weapons proposal, and theft of a bio-weapon tangle and twist together as Peter Parker gets in over his head. (Complete)


**Dinner for Two**

He hissed through the air and slapped into the thin, whiplike upper branches of the tree. As his momentum carried him toward the trunk, the boughs bent with his impact. He rolled off the branches as they sprang back to their original position. Slapping against the trunk with a satisfying thud, he whirled up the bark with disturbing speed and popped free of the upper branches.

The day seemed beautiful to him, even if it was murky and dim. Cloudy, a thin film of dispirited mist that wanted to be rain sifting down, everything lackluster and colorless in the gray light of late afternoon. Just gorgeous. Peter, grinning like a madman under his mesh, sprang out of the tree, aiming for the lower branches of a tree some thirty feet away. He avoided the one above his target because he sensed it would snap under the stress he was about to exert; reaching out, he slipped his hands around the branch and used his downward momentum to swing up into the tree. Curving and whirling, he flung himself up so he evaded the branches between him and the middle of the tree about thirty feet off the ground. Perched in the middle, he found he was still grinning like a madman.

Tonight. Dinner. Mary Jane. Oh yeah.

He scuttled out along the branch until it bent dangerously far, then he hurled himself into the air, flipping, and he landed on another outflung branch; it bent under his weight, and he timed his leap with its recurve so he was flung up towards the top of the tree.

Great exercise, squirreling. House rules; can't hit the ground and can't use web. Anything else is fair game. So he had to do laps around the park, the only place with enough trees to make it worth his while. His heart had started to speed up on the second lap; two more to go and he had to go shower and get ready. Because tonight was special.

"Date!" he said out loud, springing up the tree. "I've got a DATE with Mary Jane! I can FLY!" He whirled through the air as he crossed the empty space between the elm and the oak. Only the thinnest of branches was within his reach. He snatched at the branch, and it bent alarmingly, lowering him to where he could swing onto one of the thick spokes extending from the trunk.

Scrabble spring, and he was on the other side of the tree, moving with three dimensional ease, ignoring gravity except as a source of leverage. He was strong. He was fast. He was sticky. He was delighted. And he was moving much, much too fast.

Suddenly he was alert. Something, near, wrong. He slapped into a tree trunk and focused, listening and peering down through the shifting leaves, looking for what could have triggered his senses.

Jogger. Cute, young, blonde, bouncy, discman, not a care in the world. "Hm," Peter said. "I wouldn't think I'd be alarmed overmuch about spandex; I mean, it's a privilege, not a right, but she's got all the credentials, and on her I'd forgive the pastel colors next to hot pink—"

Mugger, gun. Okay, that's the smell. Peter shifted in the tree, silently dropping twenty feet to get a better view of the ground. On the other side of the tree from the jogging path, a man waited. He smelled unmentionable, and he had in his hand a rag and a needle... Oh, this was bad. The gun was just backup.

Peter's senses told him the jogger was listening to Alanis Morissette. "Still, that's no cause for this sort of treatment," he muttered to himself. He could not leave. He could not go on his date with this on his conscience.

The man stood quiet, his needle ready, his rag ready, his car not far away. He had done this before. More than once. More than twice. And it was always so sweet. And it was always so satisfying. And it went on for hours. But then he was hungry again. Then he saw the bouncing women on television, all around him, and he wanted it again. He had a system. He had never been caught. His target was coming. He felt his muscles tense, he felt himself prepare for the spring; the stick; then it was over and to the car. Then on to a more private place. Nothing could go wrong.

Peter slowly lowered himself, upside down, from the tree until his head was level with that of the mugger.

"Boo," he whispered.

The man spun around violently, shocked; a dark head, flaring huge white eyes, before him; reflexively the needle darted out—under his assailant!

Peter snapped his head forward, catching the man right above the left eye. With a meaty crack, the mugger's head whipped back (almost too far) and he was picked up off the ground with the force of the hit. He thudded down on his back.

The jogger grooved past, bopping along, oblivious. Peter crouched in the tree, his heart going faster than the two laps had made it go. He had almost killed the man sprawled at the base of the tree. He was not sorry for _hurting_ him; the man was scum. But he had almost killed him.

And now what? Let him wake up? Trust he did not ambush others? Call the police, who would have no evidence that they could use in a court of law? Tie up the perpetrator and give him a reason to fear the night, fear the squirreling hero, bane of muggers? Peter felt himself start to tremble slightly. He wasn't sure what he had done, or what he was going to do. Questions yawned open before him, and he was more afraid of slipping now, gripping the tree, than he had been sailing through empty space forty feet above the ground.

"Date," he reminded himself sternly. "Save metaphysics for later. Ethics for later. Tonight, date. With Mary Jane." His old feelings stirred, but he was sobered by the questions that haunted him. He sighed. "Well, at least I'm calmed down," he noted as he darted through the deepening shadows towards home.

**xXx**

"Ms. Potts," the sleek man said, "who did you say our dinner guest was tonight?"

"A certain Nick Fury," the attractive woman repeated. "Again."

"Again?" The executive turned from his survey of the landscape outside his window. "He hasn't been by in three years. Why again?"

"You know why," she said calmly. "You're just going to have the same conversation."

"Ah, but I enjoy it," the man said, smiling as he turned back to the view of the manicured landscape. "And the answer will still be no."

"I hope he takes it more graciously than he did last time," she said doubtfully.

His smile broadened. "I'll save the final answer until he's lit up a cigar. Last time he almost swallowed it. Besides, there is a great satisfaction in first treating a man to a first rate dinner and then turning it into wet cement in his guts. Ah, I do enjoy having something that they want, and not giving it to them."

Ms. Potts had nothing to say to that. "Do you want to know about tomorrow, sir?"

"Cancel tomorrow," he said with a wave. "I've got work to do downstairs."

"But, Mr. Stark," she persisted, ever so politely, "Tomorrow you're flying to the United Kingdom to oversee the opening of a chemical plant outside Dublin."

He shook his head. "Send one of my vice presidents. I'm sure I pay them for something."

"I assured Henderson you'd come," she pressed.

"You were wrong," Stark shrugged. "What's for dinner?"

"You assured me you'd go," she protested, her lips clamping down to a thin line.

He turned and made eye contact with her, amused. "I lied." He flashed her a dazzling smile. "Dinner?"

She took a deep breath. "King crab, caviar, kelp stew, shrimp scampi, and of course anything else you'd like. French silk for dessert."

"I suppose it'll have to do," sighed Stark. "Who picked the menu?"

"As per standing orders," Ms. Potts replied, "we check to see what the preferences of the guests are before we prepare the menu."

"No seafood. We'll have pasta primavera, some grilled chicken, garlic bread, soups up to the cook, and for dessert, something on fire. This isn't a usual dinner meeting. The last thing I want is for Fury to be comfortable." He looked into the middle distance at something only he could see, and a touch of cruelty slipped into his smile.

"I'll take care of it," Ms. Potts said, and she turned to go.

"Ms. Potts," he said softly as she reached the door.

She stopped.

"You and I have worked together for a long time," he continued in the same soft, gentle, almost tender tone. "That does _not_ give you leave to push me. Are we clear?"

She straightened. "Perfectly clear, Mr. Stark." She could hear his smile deepen again.

"Good. We can go over the Africa reports before Fury arrives."

"Yes sir," she said, and she left. She stopped outside the door, forcing herself to breathe normally while emotions struggled in her. _Damn_ that man. Then she mastered herself and strode off to make her employer's will reality.

Inside, Stark watched the manicured landscaping, his thoughts distant.

**xXx**

Midge checked out of the Stark lab. "See you tomorrow, Jen," he said to the fat woman who brooded in the control booth. She waved at him, and buzzed him out. She absently watched him walk down the corridor, turn into the men's restroom before his drive home. She looked back down at her magazine. Turned the page. There was Midge again; he was already late leaving, and that wasn't good for the department payroll report. Raised eyebrows. Got people grumpy. He headed back and knocked on the door.

"What," she said tonelessly.

"Forgot my coat," he said with a sheepish shrug. She sighed, and buzzed him back in. "Just be a minute," he said, and he trotted towards the back. She looked back down at her magazine.

Didn't see it coming.

The stun gun snarled into the back of her neck; her head thudded down on the desk. Midge dragged her out of her chair and rolled her under the desk. Another security officer was coming, Midge noted on the camera. He quickly cleared his throat and took Jen's seat.

The security officer (Midge noticed it was Henderson) came around the corner.

"See you tomorrow, Jen," he said.

She waved at him and buzzed him out. Then the intruder looked aimlessly down at her magazine and waited for the night shift to arrive.

**xXx**

Peter fiddled with the strip of cloth, then narrowed his eyes at the mirror. _Still_ crooked. Frustration welled up in him, but he managed to carefully take the tie off, yank it out of its knot, and try again. He draped it around his neck. There. And over there. And under there. And wrap there. Tug. Okay.

Crooked.

Just then there was a knock on his door. "Come in," he said as sweetly as he could manage. The door opened, and Aunt May peered in at him.

"Hello, Peter," she said. "So are you ready for your date? I thought I'd take a picture of you in a suit," she said, her eyes twinkling. She held a manually adjusting .35 millimeter relic she must have gotten out of the attic for the occasion.

"Come on, Aunt May," Peter protested, feeling awkward. "I wear suits lotsa times."

"But not when you're so excited," she said with a smile. "Look at you. You're flushed."

"I gotta finish getting ready," he said in a voice suspiciously close to a whine.

"Oh, but your tie is crooked," she said. "Here, let me help." She guided him to the bed, turned him around and sat him down.

"Like so," she said, pulling the tie around. "And there. And there. Just like that. A knot that your Uncle Ben would be proud of."

Peter looked in the mirror. "It's... great... a bit thick, though, don't you think?" he managed.

"It's lovely," she assured him. "It was the style thirty years ago, which means it should be coming back any day now."

He shrugged, unable to refute her logic. "Okay, well, for tie-tying I have to pay the photo tax." He leaned up against the wall and smiled his most debonair grin.

"Oh, Peter," Aunt May said, repressing a smile. "Here we go."

He heard a click, but the flash didn't flare. His smile started gritting teeth. "Thanks, that was great," he said. "That shot really catches it up."

"Is she coming here?" Aunt May asked. "I want a picture of her, too."

"I'll get you one, promise," Peter said, kissing her gently on the forehead. "I'll just take the camera and get some shots for you. But I gotta go. Now. Really."

"You do that," she said with a smile. "Have a good time! But don't be out too late. And—Peter! Peter, take your coat!"

**xXx**

The sleek car pulled up to the well-appointed Stark mansion. The mansion abutted some of Stark's most cutting edge R&D labs. Fury watched dispassionately through the window, wrapping up the conversation on his cell phone.

"No, we aren't going to work out the labor disputes at the Madagascar site. The purpose of the Project is to create agents and deploy them for specific surgical tasks, not for peace keeping operations or labor mediation or warehouse guarding. No, I don't think I need to consider my next quarter's funding. I'm not elected, Senator, I'm appointed. You sell the plan with my superiors and we'll see, but as it is I cannot offer you the Project's support with your difficulty. I have to go." Fury snapped the phone shut. "Politicians," he muttered as he tugged a cigar out of its case. "Driver, this will take about two hours. Don't get too comfortable." He got out of the car and slammed the door, his one eye taking in the building's façade and the one servant sent out to greet him.

Taking his sweet time, he tore the butt of the cigar off with his teeth and leisurely produced a lighter from his pocket. He lit the cigar, and drew deeply. Then he let the smoke out through his nostrils and regarded the servant with his cold stare. Stark. Damn. It was going to be a long supper.

He strolled toward the servant. "Awright, let's go," he muttered.

The butler said nothing about his cigar. "This way, please," he said. They walked in, down the brilliantly lit and sumptuously appointed hall, and into a dining room with a table big enough for six, but only two places set.

An ashtray by each seat.

"Thanks, that'll do," Fury said to the butler, who nodded and left. Fury walked to the window and looked out. Nice yard.

The door opened and Stark entered, dressed in an impeccable white evening suit. "My inestimable acquaintance, Nick Fury," he said with a winning smile.

"Stark," Fury nodded. "How's it going."

"Good, good," Stark said, taking a seat at the head of the table. "I was pleased to hear you decided to keep in touch. It's so easy these days to lose track of your friends."

"More than you know," Fury said. The two men sat at the table and looked into each other's eyes for a moment. "You know why I'm here," Fury stated.

"Certainly not for the food," Stark smiled, invulnerable. "I imagine you wish to resurrect a dead topic."

"And then some," Fury said. "We need your help, Stark, and we're willing to pay handsomely for it."

"First we eat," Stark smiled. "Then we talk business. Surely that's acceptable?"

Fury squinted at him. "Any idea how big a chunk of my schedule I'm missing for this?" he growled softly.

Stark's impenetrable smile grew stronger. "My dear Mr. Fury," he said, "I just conducted about two billion dollars worth of decision making while you were coming up the drive. Please do not presume to lecture me about the worth of your time, especially when you are the one who wanted to talk to me."

A moment of tense silence. The door opened and a servant brought in the appetizers.

"Care for breadsticks?" Stark said, his smile warm and his eyes cold.

**xXx**

"Seen Jen?" asked the security officer, Balentyne. Michaelson looked up, his eyes bleary behind his glasses.

"Yeah, she said she was sick. Logged out about half an hour ago," he said. "I bet she put it in the log, did you check there?"

"No, just curious is all," Balentyne shrugged. "Aren't you working late tonight."

"Hardly working," Michaelson grinned ruefully. "Just babysitting an experiment. Working like laundry is working; just waiting for the spin cycle to end."

"Well, don't get a hernia lifting your load," Balentyne said with a grin. He turned and left the lab.

"I won't," smiled the scientist. "I promise."

Michaelson stood up and stretched, yawning. He walked around the corner, down to the vending machines. Waited.

A security officer came in. "Hey, Michaelson," the guard grinned. "How's it goin?"

Michaelson shrugged. "Could be better. I left my car keys in the lab. You know how hard it is to get a taxi to come out here this time of night."

The guard, Cooper, frowned sympathetically. "That's real bad," he said. "You'll have to get here in the morning, too. Why don't you just go in and get them?"

Michaelson smiled ruefully (an expert expression.) "You know how Stark gets when we go in the lab at irregular hours. I don't want to have to explain how a genius worthy of his employ in R&D is stupid enough to leave his keys in the lab."

"Yeah," Cooper sympathized, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tell you what!" he said as an idea occurred to him. "I'll let you in. I'm supposed to do a sweep through there anyway in about fifteen minutes."

"Would you?" Michaelson said with a relieved smile. "That would be great!"

"Okay, you just sit tight," Cooper said with a very satisfied expression. "I'll be back for you in a jiffy."

"You do that," Michaelson said as he watched the guard go, narrowing his eyes. He pulled out an expensive cigarette and lit it up.

**xXx**

Peter pulled up outside Mary Jane's apartment, wincing as he listened to the gentle tap and rattle of the hanging muffler dipping now and then to touch the pavement. His car was not a thing of beauty. But it usually got him where he needed to go. He shut down the engine, hopped out of the car, and reached back in for the rose he had gotten for Mary Jane.

After innumerable recalculations, he had found a way to wear the suit, get a flower, and order at the restaurant he was taking her to, all within his budget, walking the line between cheap and classy. Peter fervently prayed that Mary Jane was a petite eater as he walked up to her apartment and pushed the doorbell.

The door opened, and Mary Jane stood there in a baggy sweater and sweats. "Heya, tiger," she said. "I'm almost ready. Come on in." And with that she turned her back to him and swayed into the apartment, pushing her hair back and fiddling with an earring.

Peter walked in, feeling the sudden heat of the apartment after the chill in the car. His heater didn't work properly, but he had driven around for a while before picking her up so it would be warmer in the car. He picked a restaurant nearby to minimize the time in his dilapidated junk heap.

"Hi," said Amy, Mary Jane's roomie. She was curled up on the couch watching tv. "How you doing, Pete?"

"I'm the luckiest man in the world, just between you and me," he said to Amy, grinning. Amy shrugged.

"You have a good time, now," she grinned. "Don't do anything that Mary Jane wouldn't do."

He cocked an eyebrow, but she just chuckled to herself at her joke and resumed watching tv. Peter heard a hiss, and he glanced down the hallway to see a tabby cat balefully watching him.

"That's not nice," Mary Jane said, coming out of her room. She strolled into the entryway, and Peter was dumbstruck.

She wore a sheer black dress, with no sleeves and no shoulders and a plunging back that revealed a considerable amount of skin. She wore gloves that went from her fingertips to halfway up her biceps, also black, and she had silver rings on her fingers over the gloves. To top it off was a black shawl that concealed her shoulders and back. She smiled at him with her ruby red lipstick and her stunning green eyes. He found air hard to come by as he smiled at her.

"How do I look?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Like I got hit by a truck," he said, "and welcomed to heaven."

"Sounds like a date with MJ," Amy said with a grin.

"We should go," Mary Jane said with a sly look at her roomie, "before the envy gets too deep."

"What. Ever." Amy grinned. She popped a handful of popcorn in her mouth and munched contentedly.

Then Peter and Mary Jane were outside.

"You came in that thing?" she asked with a smile. "You're braver than I thought."

"Har har," he muttered, but he walked around and opened her door for her with a flourish. She gracefully slid down onto the seat.

Peter hopped in and fumbled to put the key in the ignition. He managed it. He was holding his breath as he pumped the gas pedal once, twice, three times. It was warmed up. That should do it. His hand trembled a bit as he turned the key. The engine turned over once, twice, then roared to life. He sat back with a relieved smile and glanced over at Mary Jane, who was looking out the window and politely ignoring his heroic struggle.

He threw the car into gear, and off they went.

"So," Peter said casually, "how did your day go?"

"Weather was crummy," Mary Jane said. "But I got my hair done anyway."

"Yeah," Peter said with a smile, his senses reaching out. "I like the feathering at the ends, but I'm glad you washed their crummy gel out. The natural look is so much better for you."

She looked over at him, genuinely startled. "You noticed?"

"I may be a man," Peter said, pressing a fist against his heart, "but beneath this rugged exterior lurks the soul of a hairdresser. Or a sensitive nineties sort of guy. Even though it isn't the nineties anymore. But that's kind of where they—you know what I'm saying."

"You are too much, Parker," she said with a smile, leaning back in her seat.

Alertness hit him; his scalp tingled. Danger. He sorted through his overactive senses, looking for the cause; a certain wobble: No! Not now! Not—

With a bang, the car lurched and fishtailed; Peter's reflexes snapped into action and he guided the car to the shoulder of the road and skidded to a halt without hitting any other cars or objects. Mary Jane let out a whoop, but didn't scream. Then they were sitting still, breathing hard, as cars whizzed by.

"Flat," Peter said.

"Flat," Mary Jane agreed.

Peter put his head on the steering wheel for just a moment to gather his strength, then he looked at Mary Jane with a brilliant smile. "I just arranged this little incident to display my speed and prowess as a suburban one-man pit crew," he pattered with a grin. "You just sit tight and before you know it we'll be back on the great twisted oval of the city streets." He opened the door and got out.

He popped the trunk. "Jack," he muttered to himself, "jack. Jack. Jack." No jack. Donut tire replacement, schoolbooks, two blankets, empty oil bottles, bag of potato chips, two crumpled fast food bags...

Damn.

He opened the door to the back seat.

"That _was_ fast, tiger," Mary Jane said.

He grinned ruefully. "Left the tire iron in the back seat," he said, picking up the tire iron.

Slamming the door.

Don't need no stinking jack.

He looked down at his suit ruefully, then squatted delicately. Glancing to make sure Mary Jane wasn't paying attention, he quickly lifted the car with one hand, about three inches off the ground. Dropping the tire iron, he tugged off the hubcap with his strength and adhesion. Dropping it, he started whirling the tough lugnuts off with his bare hands; they didn't slip free and he had all the strength he needed to dislodge them.

"Almost done," he muttered to himself. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

A truck thundered by, and it hit a puddle that sloshed filthy street water all over his back, and left his hubcap spinning; two lug nuts rolled off.

Peter froze, absolutely motionless for a moment, waiting for the moment to pass. "Just breathe, Parker," he muttered to himself. "Breathing is better than catching the truck and taking its engine block out with my bare hands."

"Everything okay out there?" Mary Jane asked as she rolled the window down.

"Fine," he grinned. "Done in a sec."

**xXx**

There was a moment of silence after dessert where Stark and Fury regarded each other through their smoke; Stark lit up a delicate cigarillo, and Fury his second cigar for the evening.

"My position has changed, Stark," Fury said.

"Oh?"

"I'm now the director of the Project. All you need to know about that is that it is my responsibility to create and train the agents that will keep our fine country safe; what's more, the world."

"Safe," Stark said. "Very reassuring. I imagine all agencies wish they could _make_ as well as train their agents." He smiled to himself. "I imagine Hitler thought he was making the world safe, too."

"This is verbal prancing, Stark," Fury said with a dismissive wave. "You have the best, the leading edge technology for portable power sources, directed energy, and metal armor alloys. You've put these things together under different projects, with different purposes. You've told me time and time again you won't sell your technology for military or paramilitary applications. You have _got_ to reconsider."

"I've been audited every year for the past ten years by the IRS," Stark said, his smile fading a bit. "I have seen the federal government give contracts to my competitors for the specific purpose of making my life difficult. Visa applications cost me triple what they cost others with all the red tape, and they are sometimes denied. I have had tariff issues, investigations, probes; in short, in spite of the United States government's best efforts I have flourished. So here's my answer to you, Nick Fury. Go to hell."

Stark was still smiling.

Fury sat quiet for a moment, then he nodded. "The Project was all about finding people who were different; somehow damaged and set apart from the rest of humanity and using their differentness to our advantage. Now I'm in charge. I am going to experiment with what technology and machines and cybers can do. I know how you feel about the government, Tony. But consider this. No matter how good your security is, there are other agencies like the Project out there, and everybody wants what you're developing." He stood. "If I don't get it, someone else will, or they'll duplicate your research. Then you'll see worse applications than I could ever dream up. The choice is yours, Stark."

"It's worse than you think," Stark said quietly, almost dreamily. "My security here is good. Damn good. If I gave anything to you, I'm sure I would see it again." He paused. "Either those you gave it to would come to me to get more, or those that stole it from your somewhat less secured premises would come for the details I wouldn't dare to put in your hands. Either way I lose, Fury."

Fury sighed, and ground out his cigar in the ashtray. "Humanity has never developed a weapon it hasn't used, Stark. I can let myself out."

The door closed behind him. Stark sighed. He waited. Then he stood and walked to the window and looked out over his domain. Another invader repelled.

But for how long?

**xXx**

She gently lowered herself upside down from the cable she had planted in the ceiling. There it was, the prize she was after. She pulled out her electronic bypass, and in seconds she popped the case open. She reached in and grabbed the cylinder, about the size of a film canister. Her toned muscles pulled her around, and she was up the cable again. She kicked off the ceiling and slid down the rope, swinging, and landed to the side of the activated laser grid. She tapped her goggles, and she could see the infrared and ultraviolet tripwires. She had deactivated the mass detectors and motion detectors before she entered the lab.

A code; then for the retinal scan; her eyes bulged and shifted, then the machine scanned her.

"Acknowledge passage," the computer said, "Anthony Stark, Clearance Alpha Gamma G."

She smiled, and her eyes shifted once again. Then she was moving through the hallway, past the unconscious guard. She had reset the systems, giving her a twenty minute window. Ten minutes to get in, bypassing the internal securities, and five to get out of the secure lab area. She had five minutes to leave the complex before the security could pick her up again.

While she waited for the elevator, she smiled as she read the fine print on the canister next to the Stark International logo:

Tymaz Nine.

She slipped it into her belt, then she was gone.

**xXx**

Peter slung himself down into the car and slammed the door, his face red from cold and frustration. He smiled at Mary Jane, his eyes flashing. "Well, sport," he said with a grin. "Let's go do dinner."

"You're a mess," she pointed out tactfully.

He shrugged. "I brought a spare jacket in the back, and the stuff on the rest of me is nothing a quick trip to the men's room won't fix."

She smiled back. "Well well. When are our reservations for?"

"Seven," he said. He glanced at his watch. Seven twenty. He looked back at her and smiled again.

Pumped the gas pedal three times.

Turned the ignition.

It made several halfhearted efforts. Then when he turned the key it just... clicked.

He lowered his head to the steering wheel. Mary Jane sighed and leaned back.

"At least we have a movie," she sighed.

"What?"

"Well," she said, "You found your tire iron in the back, so I figured the jack might be there too. Sure enough was."

"I had an extra in the trunk, just took some finding," Peter said. He laughed, fast and high. "Always losing stuff."

"Anyway," she said, "You rented 'Creature from the Black Lagoon.' I thought it was cute. I didn't know anybody watched those old movies."

Peter went white to the lips. "I took that back three weeks ago," he said.

She waggled the tape and raised an eyebrow. He sighed.

"This is _not_ my day," he said.

"But you're on a date with me," she said, dazzling.

"And I'm screwing it up," he retorted with some heat.

She looked out the window. "You said you'd take me to dinner. How about there?" she asked, pointing.

He looked through the windshield; Lucky's Pizza Pub.

Thought for a moment.

Shrugged.

"M'lady," he said as gallantly as he could, "would you care to accompany me to yon eatery?"

"I'd be delighted," she said, extending her hand, which he kissed. Then he got out, walked around the car, and opened her door.

"After you," he said with a deep bow.

The spattered young man and the dark jewel on his arm glided into the pizza pub.

**xXx**

"Sir," a security officer said to Stark. "I hate to interrupt you, but someone with your retinal pattern and security code just entered and left the lab."

"Which one?" asked Stark.

"The biopharmaceuticals," the security officer replied. Stark nodded.

"Prepare a recovery team, quietly. Notify the police we will be in need of their assistance. We are not, after all, vigilantes. Let's see where our thief wants to take the goods."

"Yes sir," the officer said. Stark sipped his wine. Interesting. Only a handful knew that Banner had sold Tymaz Nine to him. He would now find out which of that handful had the audacity to steal it.

He pushed the intercom button. "Get my car," he said.

**xXx**

The dark woman swung over the fence and dropped with a roll; just a twelve footer, nothing as sturdy as a posh place like Stark International should need. She headed for the street, feeling smug. Then her sub-audial alarm went off. She pulled out a box the size of a pager, and saw that she was now transmitting. Squatting in the shadow, she tugged the cylinder out of her belt and held the detector up to it.

It was bugged. Right now, it was squealing that it had been stolen.

Damn.

For a moment she indulged in self-recrimination. Should have guessed. Should have had a container that would seal all signals in, or had a jammer; even while her mind raced on how she could have prevented this she was also thinking a mile a minute on how to get out of her fix. Couldn't take it back and call it a joke. Didn't dare try to evade them all and hide it. Even one as brazen as she did not dare to open the canister to get a sample; the consequences could be quite final. Had to ditch it.

Three blocks over, and she found an abandoned car. She whipped out her miniature tension bar; seconds, and the car was open. She dropped the canister in a camera bag on the floorboards, then slammed the door; in moments, she was a bag lady shuffling down the street.

Less than two minutes later the squad car pulled up, one of Stark International's security officers in the back seat. They checked out the car, ran its plates...

**xXx**

"This is a defining moment in my life," thought Peter as he twirled the delectable Mary Jane out to his fingertips then reeled her back in while the jukebox grooved. "This right here." He looked into her eyes, and she was alive and her eyes sparkled with delight. Everything that could go wrong had. And she was having a great time anyway.

Heaven.

"Hey Pete," Mary Jane said as they sat back down. "Whaddya say we go to my place and watch your movie? I think monster flicks are cute."

"Okay," he said with a grin, his mind going wild with the possibilities.

An hour or so later, they hit the street once more. He helped her into her shawl, and arm in arm they headed towards his car. He unlocked it for her, then for himself. As he slid down into the car, he felt an odd tingle; something was wrong. Alertness hit him, and he looked around and listened carefully.

"What is it?" Mary Jane asked.

"Nothing. Just...nothing," Peter said, shaking his head. "Let's see if it starts."

First try, the engine roared to life then purred smugly. Peter would have growled at it, but he was too delighted. He put it in gear and pulled away—

With a squeal of tires, three police cars roared out of hiding and blocked him. He slammed on the brakes, and Mary Jane yelped.

The police surrounded them, firearms out. "Out of the car," one barked. Peter fumbled with his seatbelt, blinking in the light, and managed to get out of the car. Rough hands grabbed him and spun him around; they searched him quickly.

Too quickly to find the flat mesh patch on his lower back.

"He's clean," the cop said.

"So's this one," said another. Peter met Mary Jane's eyes, desperate. _This is not my fault! _he thought.

"What's this all about?" asked Peter, eyes flashing with anger.

"Theft," an officer said shortly.

"What?" Peter exploded. "When?"

"Half an hour ago," said a policeman.

"We were on a date," Mary Jane snapped. "We were in the pizza pub there. Go ask the bartender. We were there the whole time!"

The policeman nodded to his partner. "Go check it out."

"Yes sir," he said, and he headed to the pub.

"This is harassment! Why me?" asked Peter.

"Because of this," the officer said, holding up a canister. "It was found in your camera bag."

Peter squinted at it. "I've never seen it before in my life. What is it?"

"That is not important," the security officer said. He turned to the policeman. "We drop the charges."

"You what?" said the policeman.

The security officer shrugged. "He has an alibi. It seems clear the thief just dropped the evidence in his car to divert us from the right track. Isn't that right, son?"

Peter looked at him hard. "That's the way I figure it."

"So we'll drop the charges. We've recovered our merchandise, and our security systems were too sabotaged for us to build a case anyway. Thank you very much for your cooperation."

"You're welcome," the policeman said. "Well, you heard the man. Charges dropped before they're filed. You kids go on home now, and stay out of trouble."

"Yes sir," muttered Peter. He and Mary Jane got back in the car. He started it, and drove.

Stark watched through the window of the car across the street. "Interesting," he said.

"You think he did it?" the security officer asked when he got into the car.

"Not a chance," Stark replied. He handed a set of modified binoculars to the security officer. "Neither one of them has any kind of shapeshifting instability or high tech that would do what our thief did."

"Just wrong time wrong place."

"Looks that way," Stark said softly, to himself. "We'll find out who our thief was when he returns."

"Returns, sir?"

Stark smiled, slow and sweet. "He still doesn't have Tymaz Nine."

"Sir, what IS Tymaz Nine?"

"Classified," Stark said. "Classified. Let's go back to the mansion."

**xXx**

Peter pulled up outside Mary Jane's apartment. They were quiet for a moment.

"Well, Pete, you sure know how to show a gal a good time," Mary Jane said.

"Uh, about tonight, I'm sorry. I should have known better than to walk under that row of thirteen ladders swarming with black cats, but there was this mirror I had to break. Can I make it up to you?"

"This was supposed to be making it up to me for abusing my roomie's cat, remember?" she said a bit archly. "You have a tremendous way of apologizing."

"Sincere if unlucky," he said quickly. "Look, I'm really sorry about tonight. If you don't want to go out again... I'll understand."

She looked at him a moment then wrinkled her nose; "You're so _cute_, Parker!" She kissed his cheek and slid out of the car, slamming the door, then into her apartment.

"She thinks I'm cute," Peter said with a dreamy grin. Then he blinked. "Aw, no, the camera!" But the whole camera bag was gone. "What am I going to tell Aunt May?" he wondered.

As he drove off, he did have one consolation; at last the day was over.

**xXx**

She sat at the table in the dark, motionless and silent. She looked at the bottle of wine. Then, deliberately, she grasped it and pulled out the cork with the corkscrew that had been in place since before she left. She poured herself a drink, and raised her glass.

"To next time," Mystique said quietly to herself. "To next time."


End file.
